


Redemption

by deliriumcrow



Category: Enderal (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, and no one here is fine at all, it's the end of the world as we know it, lots of swearing, murdered friends, trying to help each other survive, two broken disasters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-02-13 12:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21494641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliriumcrow/pseuds/deliriumcrow
Summary: Begins at the final scene of the Rhalata questline, so there are spoilers everywhere. Just so you know. Ratings for language, suicidal ideation, maybe eventual violence?Disaster sandwiches are the tastiest sandwiches.Tharael has moved into the Prophetess's house, and must learn to adjust to life on the surface. After having lived for so long under cover in a violent organization, after a childhood full of abandonment and violent abuse, this is no mean feat. Rhosyn, a half-Aeterna refugee, former homeless orphan, has her own history she's dealing with. From recurring nightmares about her abusive father, and a new life filled with violence, she's not in a much better state. Never slowing down, never stopping, is not a great way to processThrow them into a house together, and what could possibly go wrong?There will be a slow developing romance eventually, maybe two. These two are colossal messes at the start though, so it won't be starting for a long time. Other characters will also probably show up at some point.
Relationships: Prophet | Prophetess/Lishari Peghast (mentioned), Prophet | Prophetess/Tharael
Comments: 17
Kudos: 39





	1. A Candle in Dark Corners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quieter, more pensive Tharael learns his new surroundings.

Tharael knelt beside Letho's cooling body, unsure what to do. Mourning wasn't part of the Rhalata, but then, neither was he anymore. He never really had been, not within the confines of his own mind, but they had also formed the structure of his life for the better part of a decade so the differentiation was more a matter of semantics than substance. Their ways were all he knew, and all Brother Sorrow -- Letho -- knew. The man he knew as Brother Sorrow would not have wanted any special attention paid to his corporeal remains, but the friend he knew as Letho deserved better. 

There were emotions struggling to be recognized, and he pushed them back, unexamined. There would be time for them later, maybe. He had already promised not to throw himself over the ledge, and pondering his emotional state right now would not help him keep that vow.

The mercenary he hired to help him on his crusade (suicide, if he was being honest with himself) was waiting for him at the far end of the hallway. She stood with her back to him, granting him the privacy he had requested, shifting uneasily from leg to leg. Normally when left to her own devices in ruined places, she poked about in dark corners for lost treasure, but here she stood in a spot that had been burned clear of the fleshy overgrowth that crowded the place, carefully touching as little as possible. She had wrapped a scarf over her face to fend off the smell of rotting, charred carcases, but it did not help nearly enough.

"Rhosyn?" Tharael called to her, and she looked over her shoulder. 

"Yeah, you ready?" He nodded, and she walked towards him, shoulders relaxing visibly the closer she got to open air. 

"I am. But I want to take him with us, to give him a decent pyre." He was glad of his mask, certain that his expression was more mulishly defiant than he was entirely comfortable with. He knew it was a frivolous request, but he didn't much care.

She surprised him with a gentle smile instead of the expected derision, and began rummaging through her pack. "I have a scroll that will take us to the Heartlands, one to the Farmers Coast and … yeah, those look like the best options unless you want the desert or bone chilling cold. It's up to you." 

Tharael paused, uncertain what to choose. He had never been out of the Undercity until this expedition, and he had no idea which place Letho would have preferred. He couldn't remember enough of their childhood conversations to venture a guess. He looked out over the chasm where the room of paintings used to be, and nodded. "Farmers Coast, that sounds good." It was the farthest from Ark, the the Rhalata, the torture and abuse they had endured.

Rhosyn reacted as poorly as she ever did to teleportation spells, stumbling awkwardly to her hands and knees as they landed. She swayed a bit as she righted herself, grasping a fence post for support. The scroll left them at the myrad tower outside of town. The keeper was thankfully asleep, so they carried Letho unnoticed down a cliff to the shore.

The place they chose for the pyre was quiet and still, a secluded stretch of sand with enough wood about to build a decent-sized bier. They laid him out carefully, and Rhosyn surrounded him with flowers and pleasant scented herbs before casting fire spells to ensure the blaze would leave nothing but ash to drift out to sea. She and Tharael sat silent on the beach long after the flames died, long after the sun set, both wrapped in their own thoughts.

\------

They arrived by scroll in the Ark marketplace in the dead of night, Tharael maskless and wrapped in a long, bright cloak that Rhosyn filched from a chest on the shore. She argued that while it provided little in the way of subtlety, it was exactly the opposite of what anyone would suspect of a Rhalaim, especially one in hiding. It was, he conceded, a fair point. She knew the world above far better than he did, and knew what the guards were likely to notice in the dark.

The house had not been set up to accommodate two people, Rhosyn realised a little too late. Inviting Tharael to stay with her had been a spur of the moment decision based on the fact that she had room to spare, but inconveniently forgetting that the house had only one bed. She offered to share her bed with him reasoning that it was huge, it should be plenty of room for two. She had shared tents that were smaller than that bed.

A brief look of panic passed over Tharael's face, as he shifted half a step back and said quickly, "no, no. It's fine. I'll be fine on the floor." 

She shrugged, unbothered. "There's a pile of hay in the attic and some extra blankets in a box up there if you want." She opened a wardrobe and pulled out a dark robe and some towels, handing them to him. "This should fit well enough for now, we can get you some inconspicuous clothes tomorrow. The bath is around the corner, food is downstairs. I'll be in here." She yawned hugely behind one hand and stretched. "And I'm done. See you tomorrow, I'm passing out now." She turned away, pulling pins and ties from her long red hair and unweaving the braids that had held it out of her face. 

Tharael turned to explore the bath, and found a tub that filled from taps in the wall. The water was still cold, but a judicious application of fire spells remedied that. He peeled the blood-soaked leather armor away, relishing the freedom of knowing he would never need it again. It didn't matter how well made it may have been, it represented a life he never wanted. 

After a sponge bath to remove the worst layers of grime and gore, he lowered himself slowly into the hot water, trying vainly to remember a time in his past when he had been allowed to appreciate physical sensations. The heat eased some of the tension in his overused muscles, and made his skin prickle in a way that he thought might be pleasant. 

The tub, like so much in this house, was huge. Tharael was tall, even by Aeterna standards, but his long limbs fit easily under the water, even when he slid his head under. It would be so easy to just stay there, drown in water that smelled like herbal soap and metallic blood. So easy to forget the past decade and give it all back to the water. So easy to drift away, never worry again about the gaping void in his chest where maybe his heart should have been. 

But that was the point, wasn't it? It was never supposed to be easy. Sighing, he pulled himself back up, determined again to survive another night. He scrubbed until he felt raw, until his wounds stung and some of the blood in the water was his own. He didn't feel clean, exactly, and didn't know if he ever really would again, but at least his body was as clean as it could be. The water drained from the tub, and he imagined it took with it a small piece of his shame and weakness. 

The tiny loft upstairs was filled with empty crates that looked older than Rhosyn herself, rolled up rugs, and a pile of hay, some of it still baled. Tharael laid out a bed roll on top of the loose hay and lay down, hoping for sleep. It felt like luxury after a lifetime of stone floors and dirty blankets.

The following day, Rhosyn wasn't in the house when he woke. There was a note on the table by the front door saying she had to leave for a job, but that she would return by evening. Tharael was free to do as he wished, though it would be safer until he had his own clothes if he remained in the house. Lacking any better direction, he settled in a corner of the library to read. 

Hours passed, and as he was about to find a candle to chase the gloam, he heard a key turning in the door's lock. He slipped behind a wall and prepared to grab a heavy candlestick from the table beside him when Rhosyn entered, slumped and exhausted. Tharael relaxed, and rounded the corner to greet her. 

She grinned and tossed him a package. "See if those fit. They should be close enough to at least get you out of the house." Rhosyn was reasonably certain they would fit. She'd spent enough time looking at him in tight leathers to have a pretty fair idea of his dimensions, but without a tailor's tape there were bound to be mistakes. She had never felt particularly guilty about admiring him -- he was graceful and elegant, all long bones and sharp angles and fluid movement -- but she was pleased to have found it served a practical purpose after all.

Opening the package, he found a rust colored tunic and dark leggings with simple leather shoes. Not what he would have chosen for himself, he thought, but then, that was something he could remedy now. Tucked between the pieces he found a fur-lined hat. While ugly, it looked warm, and would conceal his shaved head until it was no longer an issue. He looked nothing like Brother Wrath in these clothes, though, and that was what mattered at the moment.

He found when he returned that Rhosyn had exchanged her armor for a comfortable, sea-green woolen dress that nearly matched her eyes and contrasted pleasaingly with her golden skin. She leaned over a pot on the fire, stirring something that smelled like spices he didn't recognize, root vegetables, and garlic. She smiled when she saw him, giving his new outfit a quick once-over and nodding approvingly. "Not bad, you can get them altered at the tailor if you want. Food should be ready soon." Rhosyn excused herself for the library, taking a half-bottle of wine with her. She was sprawled on a daybed by the fireplace when Tharael followed her in, already buried in the book she'd left on a nearby table. It must have been terribly interesting, he thought, as she did not stop reading even when she got up to stir the soup.

\------

The following day, clad in his new costume and with a bag of coins in the pouch at his waist, he made his way to the marketplace. Rhosyn had offered to go with him to show the way, but he had wanted to explore on his own. She had provided him with a list of useful shops and where they could be found, however. 

His first stop had been the alchemist down the street. He knew a fair amount about brewing poisons already, but as he was no longer killing for a living and murderer for hire wasn't exactly a common occupation, expanding his repertoire seemed like a wise course of action. It would give him something to do all day, and would give him an income of his own. He bought books of recipes and techniques, and a supply of inexpensive ingredients to practice with.

He made his way down to the market district, and found the tailor who sold Rhosyn the clothes he was wearing. The odd little man had plenty in stock, from which Tharael chose dark colored tunics and coats in warm quilted wool and soft linen, and trousers and leggings to match. Most were in shades of blue and deep green, hues that clashed least with his strange, almost greyish, complexion. They were close enough to the colors of his old uniform that they still felt comfortable, without being so near as to advertise his former allegiance. 

When he returned to the house, it was nearly nightfall. Candles burned in the main hall, but Rhosyn was not to be seen. Tharael made his way up the two flights of stairs to his loft, and found her there.

The straw was gone. His bedroll had been rolled up and placed under the bed that she was leaning over, straightening pillows over a thick blanket and crisp linens.

She finally noticed he was standing behind her, and grinned at him as she turned around, wiping her dusty hands on her skirt. "There you go, the welcome you should have had last night. It's yours, as long as you want it."

He wasn't sure what to say. She hadn't asked a price of him for his lodging, but in his experience nothing ever came for free. There were always strings, especially when presented with so very much -- the food, the bed, access to books and crafting materials, it was too much. There had to be expectations, he was sure of it. "What the fuck are you doing?" he blurted out, half shouting in his shock.

Rhosyn blinked, hurt and sorrow flickering over her face. "I'm … what?"

"All of this," he said, gesturing at all the new furniture. "What am I supposed to be to you? What do you want from me? No one does this much for a stranger if they don't want something, and you've survived too long and got too much to be that altruistic."

The pain on her face was now joined with a spark of anger. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before speaking, quietly. "I'm not asking for anything, Tharael. I've been where you were, more or less, and someone helped me and didn't ask for anything in return. So now I'm offering to help you, because I'm in a position to do so." She paused a moment, and continued. "And incidentally, after all the time we've spent in each other's company, you're not much of a stranger anymore. I like you. You're a snarky shit, kind of an asshole, and I like that in my friends."

That gave him pause. "You … think we're friends?" 

She cocked her head, anger replaced with a lopsided smile. "Yeah, I do."

He wanted to argue. He wanted to rage and fight and scream as she began to erode some of his deepest-held beliefs. But as he opened his mouth to speak, he found he could not. In the abandoned orphanage she argued that caring made people stronger, that love and kindness were important. Necessary. She had been kind to the people they'd passed in the Undercity, even when she had no reason to do so. She had always claimed the sort of altruistic motives he swore could not exist. Now, she was simply acting on her words. "... Oh." His brows knit, and he said, "I don't think I've had a friend since Letho."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're familiar with the actual layout of the Noble Quarter house, this doesn't match it except in the broadest senses. I modded the house to suit my own needs and put it up on the Nexus here: https://www.nexusmods.com/enderal/mods/143. (I learned modding for this game, just so Tharael could finally get a fucking nap. Sleep and dreams are great for processing trauma, he needs it!)


	2. Fragmented Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhosyn says fuck a lot, Tharael is a surprisingly good alchemist fueled by spite. Spite leaps so many insurmountable hurdles.

Every time Rhosyn left for a job, she returned with new furniture for Tharael's garret. First came a screen that stood at the foot of his bed and gave him a measure of privacy. A wash basin, a dresser, a chest with a lock, an entire bookcase (how she got it up two flights of stairs he didn't want to consider), and a comfortable chair followed. A rug softened the floor, and she gave him his choice of the many paintings and books she had lifted from abandoned mansions. It was bright and cheerful, a polar opposite of his shed in the Undercity or the Father's temple. 

Everything about this arrangement felt strange, though not wrong for the most part. His new clothes let him pass unremarked through the streets, allowing him to observe people from afar and learn the niceties that would be expected of him. No one ran from him or cleared the way for him as they did below in the Voice's armor, but neither did they glare and mutter as he passed. He was completely unremarkable. The effect was similar to that of the plain leather armor he had used before, though magnified by his current lack of weapons and air of menace. 

Once Tharael was comfortable with the idea, Rhosyn began bringing her friends over. The first was Jespar, a genial mercenary with a bright laugh and a wicked sense of humor. Rhosyn suspected the avowed hedonist would be an ideal candidate to teach someone who had lived practically as an ascetic how to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, by example if nothing else. The nights when he visited were often loud, filled with ale, bawdy songs, and games. 

The first time Jespar visited, Tharael sat in the same room, but only watched, too ill-at-ease to take a more active role. Still, any time Rhosyn or Jespar got more drinks, they always brought a bottle for Tharael as well. They made it clear there was space for him if he wished to join, but that it was not required. He was grateful for that. He watched the two interact, and envied their easy camaraderie. Inside jokes, bad puns, rude comments about people who had recently aggravated them, recounting stories of recent adventures.

The versions she told Jespar were not the versions she told Tharael. With Jespar, the stories were humorous, dramatic escapades. Swashes were buckled, maidens and men swooned for her, monsters and villains were defeated at the point of her daggers or in a flourish of lightning and fire. The stories Tharael heard, when she had only just walked through the door, were bitter, sad things, told in a whisper as they cleaned and bandaged her wounds. People bled for no reason, she was battered and bruised, and no matter how hard she tried she couldn't save everyone. They felt truer to him than the embellished versions she told to Jespar, and seemed to illustrate a degree trust in him he hadn't anticipated. But as he watched Rhosyn laugh he realized it was a sound he heard too infrequently. She relaxed around them, and the ghosts that usually darkened her eyes relented a little. She looked almost peaceful in the moments when she caught his eyes, smiling in the firelight.

When Calia visited, it was almost completely different. She was quiet and solemn, and preferred tea over cider or wine. She brewed it strong though, stronger than anyone had ever met before. Rhosyn always had a pie or a cake ready for her, and the three of them shared tea and sweets while talking about books they had read, or philosophy, or battle tactics. It was hilarious to him that the smallest member of their circle wielded the largest weapon, and was the only one trained as an actual warrior.

Sometimes, the two women would just read together, lounging on the daybed in the library curled up around each other like two cats. Other times, they knitted, scarves and gloves hanging from needles that looked like ridiculously tiny daggers to Tharael. He suspected that some of Rhosyn's needles had been used to draw blood, which she never actually confirmed. All she did was smile at him, a smile that seemed to contain entirely too many teeth. Calia, though, swore that a real knitter would never misuse their tools like that. "Too much of a chance of getting blood on something you spent that much time on", she claimed. Tharael wasn't sure if she was serious or creating plausible deniability, and he didn't want to find out. The girl was sweet, but had a darkness to her that even he wouldn't dare cross. She was a little too religious for his taste, but he genuinely liked her and enjoyed the time they spent together. Something about her felt kindred.

\------

Weeks passed and Tharael began settling in more comfortably to his new life, and Rhosyn took longer and more distant jobs that kept her from home for days on end. She and Jespar spent nearly a week traveling to the western edge of the country, returning with tales of haunting music, creepy statues with an air of foreboding and menace, and visions from the memories of a man who had died millennia before. Somehow, what seemed the strangest part was the fact that the Aged Man from song and story was not a myth at all, but a very real and ordinary, if rather obliquely spoken, middle aged man. 

As he ventured outside more often and began eating better, the sickly greyish cast of his skin warmed to a soft, ruddy tan. His hair was growing out, smooth and black, and it tickled his pointed ears and stabbed beneath his collar. Clearly, it needed a trim. He found himself reluctant to cut it, however, as it indicated how long he had been free of The Father. Nearly a hand's breadth now, a little over three months. If he trimmed it the way it had been before he joined the Rhalata, though, with the sides and back cut close, the top could continue to serve as a testament to the length of his freedom without bothering skin that had grown accustomed to being shorn. 

There were other ways he measured his progress, like the quality of the potions he brewed. He was wasting less and creating more, and charging more for them. It felt strangely satisfying to recognize his own blocky lettering on bottles marked for sale. The healing potions and curatives pleased him most, being the farthest removed from the work he did for the Rhalata. He always kept the best ones though, to be certain Rhosyn had enough to keep her alive in the field. He owed her his life, and now he found himself in a position to protect it with something other than his knives and bow.

\------

Rhosyn arrived home late one evening from a short assignment, dropped her bags at the door, and stomped out to the forge. Tharael followed her, a bit nervous. He’d never seen her in this sort of a mood, lightning and fire sparking off her fingers, and he could tell from the way she was beating the anvil that she might very well throw her hammer at anything that interrupted her. He could hear her muttering imprecations from the next room, neither softly nor clearly. He knocked on the wall to get her attention and she turned, glowering, hammer raised to strike. He got the impression she was expecting someone else to be standing there, perhaps the person who had earned her ire. Still, it was unnerving. He stepped back, empty hands up. 

“You know what?" She started, unnervingly calm and conversational. "Fuck this entire place. Fuck it and its superior, holier than holy bullshit. I’ve been homeless since I was maybe five, I’ve lived in the woods, I’ve lived on the streets. I’ve been a pickpocket and a thief all my goddamn life, and you know what? I never once had to kill anyone until I got to this goddamn country. Everyone in Ostian talked about Enderal like it’s some fucking dream land full of peace and prosperity, but the moment we were within sight of shore my best friend was murdered in front of me. I was tied to his fucking corpse and tossed overboard to drown. The first people I met here were killed right in front of me, not two minutes after I foresaw their deaths. On the way to Ark, I probably killed more than a dozen people. Since then? I've lost count. I tried, but there are too fucking many. But now I'm doing it for the Order, or for bounties, so it must be right, yeah? Sure, why not if that's what they tell themselves, I’m just the tool of their Divine Fucking Justice. But that doesn't make it better, it doesn't make it hurt less, it doesn't mean I don’t still see their fucking faces every night when I try to sleep -- even the ones who attacked me first -- " she stopped abruptly, and drank long from the bottle beside her, and Tharael realized she was crying. "It’s getting easier, Rael. The first time I killed someone, I heaved what felt like everything I’d eaten for the last week, and cried until I was utterly dehydrated. I had sworn I would not kill anything ever again, after my father and his fucking obsession with meat, and now look at me. Maybe this country deserves to be 'cleansed', there's little enough good to be found here."

She threw herself into a chair looking grim, drinking heavily from a bottle of cheap brandy. Tharael pulled another chair over to face her. "You know, you're the one who convinced me -- me, with my history -- not to kill myself because there is good in me. That I, a deplorable murderer and assassin fueled by rage and hate, was worthy of finding redemption. If that's true of me, or of fucking Nailaq, surely the rest of the country should have a chance?"

She shook her head. "No. You are an individual, and individuals can have good in them. Groups though? Mobs? Nothing good in 'em. And now I’m just the weapon of the biggest, most self-righteous, pompous mob of assholes in Enderal." She took another swig from the bottle. Tharael took it from her, and drank a bit himself. 

"I'm just saying. If you condemn the group, you condemn all the individuals in it. And Calia, at least, is a very decent human being."

\------

"Look at me,'' Rhosyn said firmly, her words the only thing he could hear from outside the screaming panic he had slipped into. He obeyed, her voice brooking no argument, and found calm, steady eyes holding his. "You are here," she continued more gently, her words forming a soothing, measured rhythm. "You are in this moment. You are in this body. No one can take that from you. What happened before is done. It is not happening now. You are not what was done to you. You are safe here. Breathe now, just breathe." There was a warmth and a pressure on his hands, he glanced down to see her long golden fingers wrapped around his own. He looked back up, into the unwavering green of her gaze, and felt himself settling a little more into his skin. 

The screaming quieted slowly, grudgingly, as he tried to gain a new awareness of his body. It was such a contradiction to the teachings of the Rhalas, where the body was to be disregarded. He felt a bitter thrill of pleasure trying to learn each of his limbs and how they connected with the world around him.

The press of her fingers was a grounding point of contact, and he squeezed back. His breath, when he paid attention, was quick and shallow so he slowed it, consciously deepening each inhalation to the beat of her words. It wasn't a magic cure -- he could still feel the torment of his memories -- but he could almost bear them.

He had never had a reason to try to be a good person, at least not since waking up in that pile of rotting corpses. His life had been a series of violent decisions designed to bring him to a specific goal. He hadn't intended or expected to survive it, but now that he had, where did that leave him? With regrets, and the blood of innocents on his hands. With Letho's blood on his hands. 

Did it really count if Letho was already dead?

Did he count as alive? 

He wasn't sure if this entirely counted as "his" body, but it was the closest he had now. It had a pulse, and he drew air with its lungs, it felt pain and bled when injured. Functionally, what was the difference? He remembered his early childhood before the Father bought and tortured him, and if he could not remember the torture itself outside of nightmares so much the better. What was it that really made him Tharael? Was it the body, or the mind, or the soul? Was it the blood in his veins or the blood he shed?

He was spiraling again, and forced himself to breathe again, pushing the desperation and fear back down. 

He focused instead on the woman kneeling on the floor in front of his chair. Her hair was damp and dark from washing, bound back in a single heavy braid down her back. Her face was drawn and pale, and there were dark shadows around her eyes and in the hollows of her cheeks, deeper than he remembered them being. She hadn't been sleeping nearly enough, he knew. When she was home she was still awake when he went to bed, and often already gone when he rose. Yet here she was, making sure he was well. A surge of guilt rose in his throat, and he drew his hands from hers. "I'll be okay now. You should go to bed." After a moment, he added in a small voice, "thank you."

She stood, a little stiffly, and brushed her fingers lightly across his cheek. "It's nothing,'' she said, and vanished up the stairs.

He missed those fingers when she was gone.

In the days following, he found himself trying to lure them back with little touches of his own. A brush of fingertips on her back, bumping his shoulder against hers if they sat together or as they walked to the marketplace. He began allowing the accidental contact he had tried for so long to avoid. It gave him a small thrill when passing the salt came with a slight caress.

The Father, he thought, could not abide the physical world because it would teach his followers not to listen to him. They would learn that his message of doom and misery was nothing but a ruse to keep them tied to him, dependent on him for their escape from a world that lied to them.

With a spiteful sort of glee (that hid his genuine pleasure), he reached for her more often. To his surprise and delight, Rhosyn did the same. 

One night as they read together on the library daybed, Tharael took her hand, twining their fingers together. She sighed softly and leaned against him, fitting herself neatly against his side and curling her feet beneath her. She propped her book up against her thigh, using folds of her skirt to hold it open so she could use her free hand to turn the pages. She seemed completely at ease as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And for her, maybe it was. Her tendency was to be more physical with her closest friends, but not if they clearly did not want it. For his part, Tharael could not quite concentrate on his book anymore, rereading the same passages over and over again without registering the words. He stayed there, unwilling to move and disturb her, until she shifted and stretched, and with a smile excused herself for the evening. 

\------

Rhosyn returned from a long mission she had gone on with Jespar and his patron, the Nehrimese magician from the Temple. Firespark, his name had been. He hadn’t returned with them, had died before they came close to reaching their destination. She came back with half healed bruises and gashes, and a new scar livid along her jaw.Something about her manner, however, seemed more off than was usual after what was supposed to be a relatively simple mission. She didn’t come out of her room for several days, and he would have worried more had the apples and cider he left outside her door not dutifully disappeared. 

Eventually she did emerge, eyes hollow and dark ringed. The journey she described paired horror and beauty in equal measure, often at the same moment. In spite of that, Tharael wished he could have seen it. He was accustomed to horror, but not yet to beauty. 

It seemed the temple in the Crystal Forest had given Firespark the same visions Rhosyn had been having since coming to Enderal, and they had broken him. He died there, half possessed, utterly mad. It seemed wrong to leave his remains in the place that destroyed him, but she and Jespar had little choice. There was no way backwards. Still, she mused over the possibility of retrieving his remains, and putting them to rest more fittingly. 

“Apparently,” she said softly, “I’m like you.” He waited for her to explain, but she said nothing for a long minute, sitting pensively on the daybed with him. “Jespar found Sirius’s body. And mine.” She hugged herself, shivering, and Tharael pulled her close, assuring himself that she was really here, holding her safe from her memories as he could not do in person then. “I think he would have killed me if I couldn’t answer his questions. But those bodies, they were real. That was me. She -- I -- was wearing my mother’s necklace, the one I found in the ashes of our house. I thought it had been lost in the ocean, but no, there it was. That was the real me, and I don’t know what I am now. No one made me a body, not like The Father did to you, but here I am. I have a pulse, she had my necklace. 

“I didn’t have a chance to bury them. Jespar left so quickly, and I can’t really blame him, but it would have been nice to do something. Still, if Sirius and I are going to rot in some cave, at least that one was gorgeous. We were in a little house. Two homeless street rats finally have a home, and this … body … whatever I am … has two.” He shoulders shook, and Tharael wasn’t sure if it was from laughter or tears or both as she added, “oh yes, and some fucking old gods think I’m weak, and my asshole fucking countrymen are invading. So, disaster of a mission, all things being equal.”

\------ 

He woke to screaming.

It was high and long, stretching into a moan of terror and pain that chilled him more than he would ever admit. He briefly missed his abandoned swords, but made do with the shadow steel dagger she had given him the week before. He threw on a robe, belting it as he raced down the stairs, expecting intruders or spectres or -- something. Anything.

There was no one in Rhosyn's room but the woman herself, twisted up in her sheets and screaming. A nightmare, then. He placed the knife on the dresser beside her door and entered, sitting gingerly on the side of the bed and trying to wake her. He shook her shoulder, shook her again. Eventually the wailing was replaced by sobs and she woke with a start and sat up. "Tha - Tharael? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. Probably should have warned about that though, I make a shite roommate." Her voice was thick with sleep and tears, hoarse from screaming. 

He brushed her hair back and pushed it behind one pointed ear. "It's ok, I understand. They come to me too."

She hunched over and asked softly, "could you stay? I know he's dead, but … the dreams … I always worry he'll come back. And I don't want to be alone if he does." She shivered, and he nodded. 

"Yeah, I can do that." He slid into the bed beside her and held her close, her head tucked under his chin, until she stopped shivering and her breathing evened out. Soon enough, he slept as well.

The nightmares did not return that night, not for either of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually, Tharael cannot walk around outside in game. You can and should mod it to where he can walk around the house, but do not let him outside because apparently guards and dogs aren't as forgiving as Rhosyn is and they will all attack him. It is funny, but only the first time.
> 
> Also I seem to have totally failed at making this a slow building romance, Rhosyn is a cat who just wants to sleep in warm laps. Oh well, whatever. They do what they want.


	3. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meeting with Lishari at the Dancing Nomad that doesn't go to plan. You know the one.

After her return from the Crystal Forest and the disastrous spying mission on Halfmoon Isle, Rhosyn was finally allowed to rest while waiting for Archmagister Merrayil to finish his translations. The General seemed impatient, but Rhosyn herself was glad of the reprieve. Healing via potions and spells was good enough in the field, but too much reliance on them caused the body to weaken, and possibly become resistant to magical healing entirely. Only real rest allowed the body to fully heal itself rather than merely slapping a patch over the damage. A long wait would allow her a chance to recuperate, eat real food cooked in pots and ovens, and to repair her weapons and armor. The better shape they were in, the less she would need to rely on healing.

She made plans to have drinks with Lishari as well -- while Rhosyn was sure the other woman's information about spies in the Order would be invaluable, she was more looking forward to dinner she didn't have to cook and time with a dear friend. Lishari's salty sarcasm and firm lack of religion were a balm to Rhosyn's irritated soul, and the fact that both of them had fled from Ostian didn't hurt either. They were facing a war against their own countrymen in which they would be expected to fight, and had already been harassed in the streets by people who suspected they were spies, and this was only the beginning. There would be plenty of fodder for conversation long after Lishari had shared her information.

Finally, meetings at the Temple concluded, Rhosyn set out for the Dancing Nomad. The walk was leisurely as she paused to admire some of the stalls, noting books and trinkets that caught her eye. One of the smiths had a particularly nice pair of daggers out, much flashier than her own work but still solid craftsmanship. They looked like a fine gift for Jespar, if they were still there when she returned. His iron daggers may have been dear and sentimental, but they did him no favors in a fight. 

As usual, a musician played and people danced in the main room at the Nomad. Rhosyn bought a bottle of cider from the bartender, and climbed the stairs to Lishari’s room. She knocked at the door, calling out to the other woman. When she received no answer, she knocked again, a little louder, and announced herself again. One of the men at the table on the landing had taken notice, and began to stand. Rhosyn shook her head and waved at him, and he sat back down, still staring as she pushed open the door. 

It was not the scene Rhosyn had anticipated. 

Lishari lay naked on her bed with a sword plunged into her gut. After a moment’s shock, Rhosyn dropped the bottle of cider and charged a healing spell as she shot across the room, hoping she was in time. She needn’t have bothered. Though Lishari’s skin was still warm, she had no breath and no heartbeat. The spell fizzled out on contact with her skin, finding nothing alive to heal. Rhosyn slumped back against the wall, her hands leaving bloody trails across the front of her rose pink skirt. If she had only been a few minutes earlier, she might have prevented it, instead of finding her friend dead in a pool of her own blood. 

She heard an exclamation from the door and rose, finding Yuslan Sha’Rim standing there, accusing her of murder. She lacked the heart to deal with his dramatics, just wiping her eyes with the back of one hand and pointing to the man at the table. Unsurprisingly, he was still staring, now standing with his mouth agape. Rhosyn quickly stepped out of the room and shut the door, blocking further view of the scene as she fought to form a coherent sentence. “He saw me come in, and I’m pretty sure he saw everything after that. I didn’t do it.”

“She’s right sir, all she did was try to heal the lass, that’s all she had time for before you arrived. And before you ask, no. I didn’t see anyone else, neither.” Yuslan nodded, becoming abruptly sympathetic. 

“Will you be able to come in again and see if you find any clues? Do you need a few minutes to sit down?” he asked, gently holding her elbow. Rhosyn sighed and shook her head, and opened the door again. The sight, while horrifying still, wasn’t the shock it had been initially. She removed the sword, as it wasn’t going to hurt the dead woman to remove it any more than it already had done. She covered her friend with the ruined sheet, and considered the sword itself. It was plain, unremarkable, and exactly like half the other swords in town. Not useful as a clue, unfortunately. A table had been kicked over on the far side of the room. The only thing that hadn’t been in the room before was a small bottle, bearing the residue of capdust. Rhosyn showed it to Yuslan, stooping to pick up her bottle of cider, remarkably unbroken, on the way. "What about this? It couldn't have been Lishari's, could it?" 

The man turned the bottle over in his hand, and shook his head. "Definitely not hers, this had to have come from someone else. Not that this proves who, though, 'dust addicts in this city are as abundant as grasses in a field." He frowned, and asked, "What were you here for? You weren't here for -- I didn't expect -- I was unaware Lishari liked women as well?" 

Rhosyn looked over at the pale face of the dead woman and sighed. At least the awkward conversations came up sooner rather than later, she supposed. Lishari had never wanted their meetings to be general knowledge, and Rhosyn saw no good reason to let death reveal the other woman's secrets. "No, it was nothing like that." This time, anyway. Technically not a lie, even if she was apparently waiting naked in bed for me. "She had some information she wanted to share with me, that was all. She said she had found out something about my powers, and the Nomad seemed like a less tense place to discuss it than the Sun Temple. Things were a little heated there when we left. I had to speak with Tealor before coming, or I would have been here earlier. Maybe could have stopped it … " Tears started rolling down her cheeks again, and Yuslan pulled her into a hug. 

"You can't think like that. This isn't your fault, this is the fault of whoever murdered her. Chasing what-ifs is fruitless, thankless work and will leave you with less than you started with. If an entire inn full of people didn't notice someone being murdered through walls this thin, then the killer was good at their job. If you had been here, she would have just died at another time." It seemed an odd form of comfort, but Rhosyn wasn't ready to chase the line of inquiry it brought up, not yet. 

Another dead lover, another sword to the gut. At this rate, Rhosyn began to wonder whether it might be wiser to adopt Tharael's aversion to relationships, as hers seemed to be fatal these days. She knew it was just the fear and pain talking, but that was how such aversions developed -- too much pain built up with nothing but one's own walls to keep it at bay. Break down those walls, and the hurt rushes in like an angry ocean, sweeping the whole world away with it. Best not to build them in the first place, she decided, best not to give in to fear. 

Instead she sat beside her dead friend, holding her slowly cooling hand, waiting as the sky grew dim for the Guard to send someone to collect the body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am well aware of the irony of Yuslan counseling her not to chase things that could have been. He is an intelligent man, he is well aware of how harmful it is, but he, like pretty much every other person on the planet, is incapable of taking his own good advice so he doles it out instead hoping someone else will get some use out of it.
> 
> I hadn't intended to write this chapter, but the scenes with Lishari's death were more upsetting to me than I had initially realised. Hard as I tried, I couldn't *not* write this chapter, so here it is in all its mismatched glory. 
> 
> Also, according to Nicholas Lietzau, the mark on Tharael's forehead was actually a tattoo and not some fancy eyeliner squiggles, so I'll be needing to work that in somewhere in the first chapter or so. You probably won't need to go back to look for it, it just means he will have another scar.


	4. Silver and Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhosyn is gone to find the first Black Stone, and Tharael takes a small job of his own while he waits.

The first week she was gone in the desert, he thought nothing of it. Some of her missions had her wandering half-way across the country, so she was frequently gone for a week at a time. He brewed his potions, experimenting with new formulae and finer techniques. He was approaching an expert level at creating useful mixtures with little else to do to pass the time. Mirella was a regular customer of the better quality potions he had brewed, and quietly for a small quantity of poisons. Assassins may not have been common in the Ark Above, but there are always rats and rivals to be disposed of. 

Mirella wasn’t much of a conversationalist, in Tharael’s opinion. So religious she made Calia look like a fucking pathless heathen by comparison, and consatantly moping about her missing son and where she’d gone wrong as a mother. He could have told her it was, in fact, the constant churching and praying and denial of any youthful exploration, but he was trying to remember to be polite if only because she was currently willing to buy his potions and sell him recipe books and the little notebooks he was quickly filling with careful notes about his experiments. 

Finally, he'd had enough of listening to the woman's whining, and went to find the island this "Brotherhood of Kor" had wandered off to. The Myrad carried him nearly to the island, leaving him a short swim to the main island. As it turned out, leaving him at a distance was a good choice, no matter how much he hated wet armor -- three bonerippers waited on the path to the settlement's center. Tharael saw them before they saw him, though, and he skulked off down the beach before they knew he was there. 

He opened one of the cabins, and after the rats had been cleared out it seemed like a safe enough place to rest up. He stripped out of his armor and hung the pieces over a chair and the table to dry, and pulled on a brown robe he found in a cabinet. It smelled musty, but it was dry and warm against the cooling night air. There was a stale loaf of bread and a slightly wizened apple in a pantry cupboard, and he washed them down with a dusty bottle of ale before lying down on the narrow bed. As he put down the empty bottle, he noticed a piece of paper on the bedside table with words written in a close, careful hand. He read it, sat up and read it again. The story was incomplete, but it appeared as though something was troublingly amiss on the island. It would, of course, explain the lack of people where a small colony of fanatics should have been, but it could also have been delusional, paranoid ranting. Still, the tiny hairs at the back of his neck prickled and his sleep was uneasy.

In the morning, he explored the other buildings, piecing together the tale from other papers and notes left behind. Regardless of whether it had been a delusion, their leader had brought them somewhere to be sacrificed to their strange deity. He dispatched a pair of Lost Ones prowling the beach, and saw they were wearing matched lockets. He took them thinking they might be useful, or bring a decent price at market. He did not expect them to act as keys that granted him entrance to the building at the top of the island, but it was hardly the strangest thing he had seen since leaving the Undercity. 

Inside, the stench was ferocious. Flies buzzed around rotting plates of food, the tables and floors sticky with spilled wine, and rats had come in from some hole to plunder the mess. Tharael ignored all but the ones most desperate to gnaw through his boots, certain he was nearing the end of the puzzle. In the very back, he found a hole ringed by a number of empty bottles and discarded shoes. He dropped one into the dark, waiting until he heard a loud splash from below. 

He checked through his pockets, making note of his potions and how many of them he had. Three small bottles would allow him to breathe water, but nothing would enable him to see in the dark. He opened the one full bottle that remained, and sniffed the contents -- sunfish, slightly turned, with a spicing of whisperweed, suspended in egg whites. Theoretically, it was a particularly strong water breathing potion, far stronger than the ones he had brought, and far more of it. He could not detect any other contents from smell or the taste of a drop on his finger. He sighed, patted a pocket to reassure himself that a cure for poison was still there just in case, and drank the bottle down before plunging through the hole to the water beneath. 

After a fall that felt like forever into chilly water, Tharael surfaced in a cavern dimly illuminated by phosphorescent mushrooms. The water was impenetrably dark but he cast a small mage light as he floated, and dove into the pool to find the exit. Down a corridor lined with ruins so old he could not identify their makers, through a dilapidated temple, and up again into another cavern with candles burning in small niches along the wall. They did not help to dissipate the smell of dead flesh and rot. At the far end of the chamber lay the members of the Brotherhood of Kor, all dead. He searched the bodies for signs of their identities, and found one carrying a decent sword and a scroll that teleported him back to Ark, to tell Mirella her son and his group had moved on to a new home. It wasn't entirely a lie, not really.

\------

The second week Rhosyn was gone, he began pacing, starting at every noise that could have been the door. It never was. His focus waned, he only managed to finish half his usual volume of potions. 

Jespar came to visit, bearing an armload of mead bottles. As if Rhosyn hadn’t more bottles in the basement than the two of them would ever consume on their own, and as if Jespar wasn’t well aware of this fact, having seen it on many occasions himself. Still, he did not begrudge the company. They drank, smoked Jespar's pipe, and Jespar took advantage of Tharael's distraction to win a considerable pile of gold from him at cards. They joked and laughed, but without nearly as much enthusiasm as usual. Neither of them would give voice to the worries that lurked in both their minds. 

Calia came to see him with a fresh fruited cake. This was an elaborate affair with nuts and honeyed figs and dripping with melting glaze, and they brewed strong, sweet tea, heavy with smoke, to go with it. With Calia and the demon he could feel lurking within her, Tharael could speak more openly. He knew Jespar understood pain and loss, but he avoided feeling it. Calia embraced pain, much the same way Tharael did, and they both worried for their missing friend. They sat together on the wide couch in the study, and when Calia leaned on his shoulder silently crying, he held her fast against his side until they both slept, leaning on each other for comfort and strength.

\------

By the third week, Tharael was certain he would wear tracks into the tiled floor. His potions began curdling, so he stopped making them altogether. It was nothing but a waste of perfectly good ingredients. He tried to read, but the words slipped away from him, refusing to be seen or comprehended. Calia and Jespar began coming by “to see how he was doing,'' as they put it, but they quickly found their anxiety only magnified when they were worrying about Rhosyn together. None of them slept much, sitting in the dining area to better see if she came through the door. Still, it was better to worry together than worry apart, and if more wine was consumed than was remotely sensible, there was no one there to stop them.

\------

Rhosyn dropped her pack beside the door and sagged against the wall, not ready to deal with the long march up the stairs. Of all the missions she had been sent on, nothing cut deeper than Silvergrove. She was certain nothing would fill the hole it had left in her heart.

She did not expect the crushing hug she found herself in, but it was not unwelcome. After her momentary shock passed, she returned it, wrapping her arms just as tightly around Tharael and burying her face in his chest. He was warm, he was alive, he was real, and she desperately needed that comfort now. "You were gone so long," he said against her hair. "More than a month this time. I thought you were …" He trailed off, unwilling to speak his fears aloud, lest his words tempt the fates.

She gave a shuddering gasp into his shoulder and held him tighter. All three of them, she, Tharael, and Ryneus, had been abandoned as children, and all of them bore the scars of it on their hearts. Of the three of them, only Ryneus had managed to keep a measure of innocence. But now he, the kindest and most deserving of them, was dead. If there was ever a proof for the unfairness of existence, it was that. A sweet, gentle child who only wanted to be loved lay dead, while two killers and thieves stood together in an expensive house. "Children deserve to be loved," she half whispered. "We deserved to be loved. We deserved so much better than we got."

Tharael knew he would get the story from her later, when she was ready to tell it. For now, though, he was content to hold her, solid and alive in his arms. He leaned his cheek against the top of her head until she no longer shook, and tentatively pressed his lips to her forehead. "Maybe we did deserve better, but we only get what we're given. We seem to be doing pretty well with it, all things considered. We have the chance to be better." She was so much better than her background. Where abuse and abandonment had made him hard, she took it and learned to care so much about so many people. She wasn't, legally speaking, a good person -- no one who goes to the Dust Pits to kill for gold ever is -- but she was kind. As much as he disparaged love, Tharael admired her. Envied her, to a certain degree. Her heart broke at least once a week it seemed, but it only served to make her more fierce in protecting the people she cared about. Perhaps it was time, he thought, to rethink his philosophies about love and weakness.

Rhosyn pulled away finally and wiped her eyes abruptly with the heel of her hand. "I need to get cleaned up and eat something that didn't come from the bottom of my pack. If you want to wait up, I'll try not to take too long." 

She returned some time later, her face rosy from scrubbing, wrapped in a clean robe the color of new leaves. Tharael was already grilling leeks and sliced potatoes, and buttering thick slices of fresh bread when she returned, braiding her damp hair. She took a slice of bread and a bottle of cider and watched him working at the fire. In the time he had lived with her, he had gone from a broken, battered ghost unsure what to do with a clean slate, to an apparently confident young man, comfortable in his position and abilities. For most of this growth she had been elsewhere, acting as the Order's errand girl. 

Which brought her back to Ryneus, and the fact that he had died because the Order had demanded the one thing keeping him alive. He had created a tiny oasis of peace and happiness, and even if it was false it was beautiful. She had not lied. She really did think about staying forever, in the single, endless moment that Silvergrove encompassed. It lasted forever, it lasted a blink of an eye. She could have come back to Ark, fetched Tharael and Jespar and Calia, and the four of them could have lived there in perfect harmony in an eternal, glorious morning. She might not even have felt bad about it. Calia would have, though, and Jespar would have quickly bored of the endless sameness. Tharael probably would have just been suspicious of everyone’s kindness, and never relaxed at all there. 

Nothing for it now, the option was gone because the Order demanded a child must die. She hadn’t killed him herself -- had tried so hard to save him -- but she still held herself responsible. She and Tharael were growing more and more similar by the day, and she didn’t even have the luxury of claiming it was so she could go undetected in hostile territory. She was certain that at this point her body count was orders of magnitude larger than his. 

He was finding his place in the world and she was coming unmoored, her tethers spooling out behind her in tatters. She did not begrudge him his healing, it was why she’d brought him home in the first place, but she did envy it a little. 

He placed a plate in front of her, a small smile twisting the scars across his lips and cheek, drawing her slowly from her dark mood. She returned his smile, vowing that no harm would come to him. She would fight for the family she had made until they all had a chance to rest and heal together.


	5. The Bloody Siblings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jespar's Black Stone quest. Brutal, sadistic murders here, as you well know if you've played the game. PTSD, discussions of child abuse.

Tharael had taken over the little study area in the back corner of the library, covering the table with stacks of books on the uses and identification of the herbs of Enderal, and folklore that mentioned healing herbs, poultices, tinctures, or anything else that might indicate further uses for the materials he and Rhosyn had gathered. Scattered amongst the books, stuck between their pages and stacked atop them, were densely written notes in Tharael's spiky handwriting. He was compiling them into a more concise, accessible format when Rhosyn came in, looking unusually concerned. "Hey," she said, "have you seen Jespar lately? I just went to see him at the Nomad, and he wasn't there. The barkeep hasn't seen him in days, and that's not really like him." 

Tharael glanced up, eyebrows knit. "Now that you mention it, no. He hasn't been around here in a while. He could be out on a job, but he usually says something before leaving." They had all been sharing their destinations and their projected return dates with each other for a while, just so someone would know where to look if they didn't return. 

Rhosyn rummaged in her pack for a moment and pulled out a small, coarse box and showed it to Tharael. "The barkeep gave me this, and said it was delivered for Jespar. Maybe it might have some information on where he's gone?" She opened it, and a folded map lay within. Three places were marked on it, in and around Ark. "Well, it's something, I guess. Care to help me take a look?"

\------

The first location was just past the North Gate, a stone barn at an apparently abandoned farm. The door opened easily, revealing a normal barn interior that smelled strongly of rats, with an undertone of copper and rotting meat. The floor swarmed with huge, sleek rats, most of which skittered into holes. Some remained, attacking their ankles, and were quickly dispatched. At the back of the room was a table with a heavy key, which Rhosyn pocketed. It fit the side door, and she hesitated before opening it, hearing more rats beyond. The smell of death was stronger here, and she didn't like what it implied. 

Tharael pushed it open instead, braced for the rats that waited within. They weren't any more difficult than the others, but they distracted the pair from the rest of the scene for a few minutes. 

A man, or rather what was left of him, lay chained to the floor, where he apparently had been devoured by the horde of rats. Rhosyn felt her stomach lurch at the cruelty, certain he had probably been alive at the time -- why else bother with the chains? A small satchel lay nearby, and Tharael drew a paper from it while Rhosyn struggled not to vomit. 

He read the confession, a grim look of satisfaction crossing his face. "Fucker got what he deserved." Rhosyn glanced up, confused, and he handed her the paper. "He raped children, Rho. He kidnapped and abused and raped and tortured children, and when he was done he sold them off to the next bastard, and I only wish I could find his ledger to see who else needs killing." 

His voice had gone quiet and conversationally cold, and Rhosyn feared he would relapse into Brother Wrath. She couldn't have blamed him, she felt like hunting them down as well. Growing up on the streets men like that were an ever present danger, and she had lost more friends than she cared to count to their predations. That she hadn't been one of them was more due to dumb luck than any particular skill of her own, especially early on.

She tugged at Tharael's elbow, drawing him back towards the exit with her, startling him out of his rage. "I can't be in here anymore, Rael," she said softly, voice quavering. She shrank back, her other hand over her mouth, eyes wide with horror as her memories of Ostian overwhelmed her. He led her out with an arm around her waist from the barn and back into the bright sun outside. 

As the door closed, Rhosyn collapsed to her knees in the dirt, arms wrapped tightly around her waist as she wept convulsively and retched into the dust and weeds. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, seeing only the ghosts of her past. Tharael knelt in the dust behind her, one hand moving in slow circles between her shoulder blades. "Are you ok?" He asked. 

Rhosyn shook her head in the negative. "I will be, just not soon." Comforting her grounded him slightly, and he felt his rage recede as he remembered the promises he made to heal rather than harm, and the peace he found in his new calling. He slowed his breathing, allowing himself to calm. He could return, find the ledger if one existed, and give it to one of his contacts. Someone else could meet out well-deserved justice for a change, it did not have to be him or Rhosyn. 

\---

The second body, deep in the sewers under the city, was an elven assassin of some infamy. She lay starving in a cage, surrounded by the remains of food, just out of reach. As expected, another satchel contained a confession of her crimes.

The third body, in a hidden cave south of Ark, had been suspended over a pool of acid, flesh melted away by fumes that had dissipated long before Rhosyn and Tharael arrived. He had been a slaver, and neither of the two who found him felt his death had been any great loss. 

They took the three notes back home, and compared the notes on the back. The letters assembled into a phrase -- Knock, knock, who's there? Come in alone, if only you dare. It had to mean something, but they could not make sense of it.

Rhosyn left to find Jespar and ask if he knew anything about it, leaving Tharael alone with his thoughts. This Judge, whoever they were, made him distinctly uncomfortable. He could easily have become a sadistic killer like them in pursuit of some form of justice or retribution, had he allowed himself to do so. Had he remained with the Father, or had he not found Rhosyn. It would have been so simple to allow himself to slip deeper into rage and despair, with no obvious means of escape. He would have been, at that point, truly a monster beyond any hope of redemption. As this killer was. 

He prepared his herbs for potions automatically, powdering and tearing and boiling as each ingredient required, all the while contemplating the differences between himself and the Bone Judge. Their motivations seemed to be similar -- ridding the world of human monsters -- but their methods could not have been more different. He liked to kill quickly and efficiently, leaving no room for chance and, coincidentally, no excessive suffering. This murderer, however, seemed to revel in their sadism. Tharael, having been tortured, could not stand the idea of inflicting that torment on anyone else.

Rhosyn didn't return for several days, and when she finally did she was alone. Jespar, she said, had gone off on his own, too upset to deal with the death of his sister -- the Judge, apparently. His own death and resurrection was a trauma he hadn't seemed willing to accept, and neither Rhosyn nor Tharael could blame him for it. 

Rhosyn took a large bottle of mead upstairs, and drew herself a hot bath to soak away the pain and sand of her travels. But when he stopped to ask if she needed anything, Tharael swore he could hear her weeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter, which seems to be the case when I'm predominantly following the quest line instead of making up little domestic scenes between side quests. There are parts of the main quest that seem to be somewhat necessary though, so I have no regrets. 
> 
> Oddly, quarantine is not helping my creativity, but instead seems to be actively hampering it. Oh well. See if we can't get Calia's stone story up faster next time ...


End file.
